I really don't know how these days are passing. Sometimes it seems like a life time, sometimes it seems like a blink of my eyes. Its been exactly one calendar year. Last year the last few days of his life, Asif was very close to me.
Just two days ago in last year,at around 4:30pm, Asif came home from his new job. I was already home and was resting in my bed. When I heard him coming in, I called him, "Asif". After putting his bag down he came straight to my room. I asked him, "How was your new job?" He was very excited, he lied down on the other half of the bed next to me and happily replied, "You know what Mamoni? They put me into 3 different classrooms, and everybody loved me."
That was no surprise to me, everyone liked and loved him, but I was more eager to know if he liked it and asked him the question. Asif was very relaxed. He was lying flat on his back in my bed and answering my questions. He replied, "Yeah, I like the school."
"Are you going to take this job?" Asif said, yes, he would take the job. Then I asked him how did he go to work, how long it took. When I got a call a week ago from Janet, the Assistant Principal, who was offering him a permanent position, I was happy. I knew he liked to work at her school and all the staff loved him there. Besides, that school is only 10 minutes away from our home. But when Janet told me she had the position open at another site in Maspeth, I was not happy. I never worked in their school in Maspeth, I knew its far and traveling there would take time. So I told her, its up to Asif, if he likes to work there, he would take it. Asif was working as a substitute paraprofessional but he passed the test and was waiting to be permanent. I knew he wouldn't hesitate to work at their Jamaica school, but I wasn't sure if he would like to work in Maspeth. When I gave him the message about this job, I told him that if he takes the job, he can get a transfer.
He too knew how I felt about working in Maspeth and told me that he had to take the train, then a bus, and it took him about an hour to go to his new job, but he would take it. We were talking for sometime, then his father walked into the bedroom, Asif got up and left. I wish he stayed little longer. I didn't say anything then, but now I wish I insisted him on staying.
It was one of the few rare moments of us together, as a mother and a son. Even though, he was staying home for the last seven months, we both were busy with our own little worlds. He spent most of his time in front of the computer, on the phone or napping. I was busy with my work, study, housework. Sometimes if I talked to him, he wouldn't hear me, because he always had his headphones on when he was in front of the computer. I would get upset because he wasn't responding, and start calling him loudly. After hearing his name a few times, he would take his headphones off and look at me.
I can see his face so clearly, he is so much alive to me. I just can't believe that someone so vibrant and full of life, was taken away from me. Its been twelve months, I'm still alive, breathing, fighting for my rights and survival, witnessing some ugly things in life and feeling miserable day by day. Wouldn't it be nicer if I could give him my life? He had so many potentials, he could do so many things, he had so many hopes and dreams. I don't have that many things to look forward to except Nafees and Moumita. But, God had other plans. He ended his life, he didn't want Asif to witness all the filthy things in life and be miserable. He took him to a better place, instead, he kept me alive to suffer.
I always fought for the best for my children, they were and are first priority in my life. When Asif started High School in Dallas, someone threatened him and when he told me about it, I was furious. I called the Principal and the parents and made sure that doesn't happen anymore. When anyone verbally abused him, I protested and defended him. I fought for his life from the beginning.
This story started about 23 years ago in NY, but it goes back to way before that.
The day Asif came to this world prematurely, he had trouble breathing. I was not expecting him to arrive for another two months, so I was not prepared and I couldn't tell that I was having labor. When I was holding my tummy and walking in the house, my mother-in-law noticed it and she asked me if I was having labor. I paused for a moment and then replied, may be yes. I called the clinic, the doctor was unavailable. I told the nurse that I was having labor and I would be arriving at the clinic very soon. She replied, "But it's the night before Eid".
I told the nurse, "So? Eid or not, my baby will not wait. I am having labor and I would be at the clinic shortly." She didn't like it and reluctantly hung up the phone. Meanwhile the driver got the car out of the garage and I got into the car with my mother-in-law. There were some interns and nurses at the clinic. My water broke right away, Asif couldn't wait to come into this world and he came way before his due date.
I didn't see him right away, I didn't know if it was a boy or girl, but I could hear the doctors were trying to make him breath and my mother-in-law was crying in the room, "Breath, my brother, breath." I found out at that moment it was a boy. Moumita was only two and a half years old at that time, everyone in the family was hoping this time I had a son. In our culture people long for a boy. People would give birth to multiple children until they have a son. Some people would remarry to get a son. A son is a heir, and without a son their legacy would die with them. I never thought that way. I was happy with Moumita, my daughter. But when I got pregnant, I was hoping this time it would be boy, so that I would have both children. But I didn't know until I heard my mother-in-law that I gave birth to a boy. I felt miserable when I found out that the boy wasn't breathing.
After some more efforts, Asif cried his first cry and his grandma was very ecstatic and I was relieved. Doctors were relieved too, after cleaning him they brought him to me. His forehead was covered with facial hair because of the premature birth, but rest of his sweet little face was very cute and his eyes were gleaming. When people, mostly relatives, suggested that I should try for another child, I told them, "I love Moumita so much, where am I going to find any love for the other child? How am I going to love another child?" But as soon as I saw Asif's cute face, I fell in love with him instantly. So cute! Because of his dark big eyes and creamy skin, I sometimes called him 'Black-eyed Susan'.
Asif was very tiny at birth, weighed little over four pounds. That clinic didn't have proper arrangement to take care of such a tiny baby, they told me they would send him to the Children's Hospital in the morning. He was born on the night before Eid-ul Fitr. Everything in Bangladesh shuts down during this holiday. Also, at nights there was a curfew, so nobody could go out at nights except for emergency crews. Instead of sending him to the hospital in an ambulance, the doctors left the hospital to celebrate Eid Festival with their families. I didn't have anyone else with me except for my mother-in-law. My parents were in Chittagong, they didn't know about the premature birth of my son, otherwise they could be there with me. And my husband was in NY, thousands of miles away. If he was so concerned about the birth of our first son, he wouldn't send me to Bangladesh, despite my plea to stay there. I wished I didn't leave New York for Bangladesh, if I was in NY, there would be no problem with his birth and neonatal care. But it was too late, I was in pain and agony.
That was another story. My husband was living and working in the USA, I was in Bangladesh with Moumita. Six months after he left for the USA, I decided to be with him. I was working at the US Embassy and it was easy for me to get a visa. In October, 1984, I got a visa for myself and Moumita and came to NY to be reunited with my husband. I had many dreams when I came to the USA, dream of a happy family life.
Almost half the time that we were married, my husband was away from me. In fact, he left for the UK three days after our wedding, I was only 17 years old at that time. He tried to take me there, but I couldn't get a visa and he returned after more than two years. After staying in Bangladesh for a year and a half, he left again for Greece and returned after almost two years. This time I thought he was going to settle down. We rented an apartment, he opened a business and I continued my education. Finished my Master's and in the same year Moumita was born. When Moumita was Six months old, my husband left again for the UK, this time for six months. He came back after six months, but wasn't planning to settle down. This time he got a visa to go to the USA from London. Few months after returning from the UK, he left for the USA. So when Moumita was almost two years old, I decided to follow him to the USA. I thought that its about time that we settle down as a family. I wanted Moumita to grow up in a complete family life. I came to New York to be with my husband.
Life was harsh in NY. Winter was fast approaching, we had financial problems, I had no family or friend. We lived by the East River, near Triboro Bridge. The only mode of transportations were taxi and train. Walking to the train was tedious for me. First of all, I was not used to walking. In Dhaka, we hardly walk, we get a rickshaw (tri-cycle) even to go to someplace one block away. Besides, I had the luxury of a chauffeur driven car to go to work. Only time I walked was when I went to New Market to do shopping or countryside to visit my grandparents. Now, I had to walk ten blocks to the train station in the harsh cold weather with a two year old child. Not only that, I had to climb up all the stairs with a heavy stroller and the child.
We couldn't even afford a taxi. My husband worked at his brother-in-law's restaurant in mid-town Manhattan and the restaurant was not doing well. Which meant he wasn't making enough money. The only expensive thing I bought was a pair of shoes, which cost me $20.00 and I have been scolded by my husband for spending so much money on a pair of shoes. I felt bad when I thought of my good old days, when I worked at the US Embassy and got paid bi-weekly. I also worked at the radio station and newspaper offices on my weekends. I didn't have to worry about money and spending.
I didn't know life would be so much different in the US. My husband was living in a house with five other men. He was sharing the rent with his brother, cousin, and three other friends. They all had their wives and children back in Bangladesh. Most of them worked hard at restaurants, shared an apartment with others to send money to their families. These men came home in the evenings, took turns in cooking and others watched television and/or played cards.
In Bangladesh, people work during the day and spend time with the family in the evenings. But my life in the US was exactly the opposite. My husband and brother-in-law had different schedules. My brother-in-law worked from early morning till midnight. He worked hard and earned more money to send to his wife and children in Bangladesh. When others came home in the evenings, my husband and my brother-in-law would be at work. Most of the evenings I tried to stay in my little bedroom by myself, or helped the men in their cooking. There was only one television in the house and the men loved to watch wrestling, which I hated. Sometimes I went to the restaurant to be with my husband. The business was slow and staying there was not a problem. But coming back in the middle of the night in the cold weather with my little girl was a big problem. Moumita would fall asleep, carrying a sleeping toddler up and down the stairs at the subway station and at home was hard.
Six days a week, my husband left home at 2 pm for work. He worked in the afternoons and evenings, came home in the mid-night and slept until late in the morning. I had very little time to spend with him, he had very little time to spend with our little girl. At that time, there were very few Bangladeshis in New York. The small number of Bangladeshis lived in NY, most of them had their families in Bangladesh. Only a handful people lived with their families and I didn't know any of them. I only had one friend living in NY but no family. I didn't know anybody else, I didn't have any place to go, I didn't know how to go around the city. If I ever wanted to visit my friend, I had to walk ten blocks in my ill-fitted winter outfit, pushing a heavy stroller all the way to the station and carrying it and the child up to the top of the subway station. I couldn't go anywhere much and no one visited us. My days were miserable.
After a few months, the men decided to move to an apartment closer to the train. I guess, living accommodation for them wasn't too convenient after our arrival. Three of them shared the big bedroom, two of them in the smaller bedroom and we occupied the middle size bedroom. There was no privacy for them or for me. Also, I think they too hated to walk so many blocks after a hard day of work in the bitter cold weather. This time, some of the men decided to move to another apartment. We rented a two bedroom apartment in Steinway. Only his brother and a childhood friend stayed with us. They stayed in one bedroom and we lived in the other bedroom, which was adjacent to living room on our side of the apartment. We had very few furniture. I mostly furnished the apartment with the secondhand furniture and other things that I purchased from the Salvation Army. The store was around the block from our apartment. Subway station was only two blocks away. Shopping was a major problem for me in Hoyt Avenue apartment, stores were far away and I couldn't go by myself to buy things, my husband had only one day off and I had to wait for him. Now, that problem has been solved. Pathmark, a big supermarket was really close to our new apartment.
The other men stayed in the next building. Sometimes they invited us, we invited them. We met other Bangladeshis, and our socialization got better. Steinway was not as quiet as the Hoyt Avenue. There are shops, a play ground right around the corner. I was not that bored. Life seemed much easier on Steinway Street. Everything was closer and convenient. The weather was getting warmer. I started to feel better. But God had other plans. When I felt better about the situation, I found out that I was pregnant.
After Asif was conceived we started to worry about the health insurance. Of course none of the men had health insurance at that time. They didn't get health insurance through their job, didn't need one and couldn't afford one. When I became pregnant, I had to make trips to the hospital by myself. Most of the times dragging my little girl with me, sometimes leaving her with her father on his day offs. I was hoping that I would get a job and be able to help my husband with the rent and cost of living, which surely increased after I came to NY with my little girl. But, being pregnant I figured it out I couldn't get a job. Of course, I had experience in some office work, but how could I work with a toddler and a pregnancy!
My husband suggested that I should get an abortion. Because we had trouble paying the hospital bills for prenatal care and after having the baby, it would cost a lot of money. Especially in our present situation, I would be stuck at home for few more years and won't be able to help him financially. On his insistence, I asked the doctors if I could get an abortion. They informed me that at that time they couldn't abort the fetus. It should be done early in the pregnancy or little later. I had to wait a few more weeks to get an abortion. I wasn't willing to get the abortion, not because of religious views, but because I didn't have the courage. If I lost the child accidentally that would be different, but I couldn't do it on purpose.
Instead of getting an abortion I suggested to my husband, it would be better for him if we (Moumita and I) left. If we went back to Bangladesh, he didn't have to worry about spending any money to keep and feed us. Here I won't be able to work outside to help him financially, but In Bangladesh, I had my job waiting for me at the US Embassy and I could support myself with my salary. I didn't have to worry about taking care of the little girl and a new born. I would have maids and servants to do that. When the new born would be a few years old, I could come and join my husband. It would be best for both of us.
My husband liked the idea, and he agreed. I started to pack my suitcases. As the day of our departure was getting closer, I had a second thought. I didn't feel like going back to Bangladesh. I told my husband that I wanted to stay, but instead of getting happy, he responded that since we told everyone that I was leaving, I had to leave. Without further arguing, I started to get ready to leave. Finally, exactly six months after coming to NY with a lot of dreams and hopes, I boarded a British Airlines plane, 5 months pregnant, a little girl and shattered dreams of a happy family.
Now, when I heard Asif was struggling with his life, his tiny life was in jeopardy, I wished I argued with my husband about staying in the US. Perhaps, then I wouldn't have to worry about saving my baby. All night, I tossed in my tiny bed in that empty clinic. My mother-in-law was running back and forth between the upstairs and downstairs. She was worried for the baby too. She was sitting near the baby and and every now and then coming to see me. Every time she came to see me, I had only one question for her. that was if my baby was still breathing, if he was still alive.
At 6 am in the morning, as soon as the curfew was lifted, one of our friends came to to visit us at the clinic. When his wife saw there was a new born child lying in a crib and he was surrounded by ants, she asked the nurses if the baby was dead. She had no idea at that time that it was the baby she came to see. They hurriedly arranged for an ambulance in the early hour of Eid Day. Things started to move quickly, the ambulance came in a few minutes and my baby was taken to the Children's Hospital in Second Capital. My mother-in-law went with him. I had to stay a couple more days in that clinic. Every moment was agonizing, I was left by myself wondering if my baby survived. Meanwhile, my mom came from Chittagong and other relatives and friends started to cme. On the third day, I came home, took a shower and went to the Children's Hospital.
My tiny baby was in an incubetor. I got myself a bed near his incubetor but I couldn't hold him. There was a neck high wall in between. All day and night, I watched doctors and nurses taking care of him and other babies. Every day babies were dying in front of me. I saw a father lying in the upper bunk of the bed and his baby in the lower bunk. He was giving blood directly to the baby. The child didn't survive. Their parents heartfelt crying filled up the hospital room and I glued myself to my baby's incubetor. I just kept praying in my mind for my baby. Fortunately, he didn't have any complications other than low birth weight and started to get stronger each day.
After two weeks, they let me take my baby home. After we brought him home, it was a celebration. We were so happy. My mother-in-law wanted to name him Mobarak, because he was born on the Eid Day. I didn't like the name, it was old fashioned and my husband had a friend named Mobarak. When I found out I was pregnant, I spoke to my husband about naming our child. I told him, if its a boy, I'd name him Asif, which was similar to his name. He agreed. So he was named Asif. Later in life, Asif didn't like the sound or the spelling of his name. He said Asif means 'I am sorry'. He even wrote a poem about his name. He called himself "Asaf', which meant wind. I loved his name and always called him Asif. Now I love his name even more. Its not him, who is sorry, its me, who is sorry.
I am sorry because I couldn't protect him, I am sorry because I couldn't give him the life that he wanted, I am sorry that I couldn't do anything for him, I am sorry that he left me forever, I'm sorry...
to be cont'd...
